For the Good Times
by Clover64
Summary: What happens when a man playing king meets a woman playing knight? That's when your heartaches begin. A series of oneshots detailing the relationship between the King and a female courier.
1. Marie's the Name

_A/N: _This fic should progress in a chronological manner, covering a variety of events, but may not always focus on the main plot of the game. Expect cameos from many other characters as well. Also, as a warning, there will probably be spoilers throughout. And a lot of Elvis Presley references. Last, but not least, I hope you enjoy!

- . - . -

Some days, Marie Jingfei Song wasn't convinced that she hadn't died back in Goodsprings. If this wasteland wasn't hell, she thought, then it sure as hell set the bar _real_ high. Between raiders and legionnaires on the roads, cazadores and deathclaws in the mountains, and throngs of unpleasant people spread throughout the otherwise barren Mojave, it was understandable how she could confuse it with the actual place. Short of a giant lake of fire, the desert was doing a good impression of eternal damnation – much to the courier's frustration.

She lifted a hand along with her gaze from her pip-boy, shielding irritated eyes from sun and sand. For what must have been the third time that day, the Asian woman tried to judge her position relative to the map. Was that north? Or had she come from the north? It was true that her sense of direction had always left something to be desired but this was bordering on the downright pathetic. A map was supposed to prevent people from being lost, but it ended up leaving her more confused than if she'd just followed her intuition.

And on that note, she did just that.

_That_ way was north, she decided with no empirical evidence to support the conclusion. There was none to refute it either, though. She started walking.

The wind made a brief cameo then, determined to make a bad day worse, and smacked her in the face with enough force to make the small, light-footed courier step back. Granules of dirt and rock were kicked up from the petulant weather, peppering anything that wasn't protected by her leather armor, namely her sunburned arms. Sure, it breathed, was lightweight and maneuverable, etc. etc., but damn! if she wasn't going to end up looking like a tomato by the end of this trek. Marie pulled her beret tighter down over her ears; a futile act, really, since she knew she'd be picking sand from her hair and clothes for the next week.

Chancing a glance at her companion, (after all, what else was there to look at beside the odd and less-than-exciting cactus flower every now and then?), she noticed that Boone was quiet as ever. Obviously he was preoccupied with his favorite hobby: giving new meaning to silent as the grave. In fact, Marie was pretty sure she'd met corpses that were more talkative. But that was okay, suited her just fine since she wasn't all that much of a people person anyway. It wasn't like she hated people, she just didn't like them very much. Didn't understand them. Couldn't trust them. And the feeling was mutual, nine times out of ten.

There was always that one exception – but she'd learned not to rely on such an off chance.

"I thought we were headed to Freeside," Boone remarked, clearly having tired of playing their undeclared game of _Who Can Be Quiet the Longest_.

Her mouth felt uncommonly dry. "We are," she said.

"Then we're going in the wrong direction. Freeside's to the north."

"We're going north."

"No, we're going east." His brows lowered over his dark sunglasses, suspicious. "I thought you had a map?"

"I do have a map."

Instead of pressing the point, Boone just gave one of his signature sighs. "Then use it," he said, not as a suggestion. She frowned. It was the map that had gotten them into this predicament in the first place. Obviously. She was not going to use the map. Call her stubborn. "Fine. Don't use it. But at least tell your misguided sense of direction to take us that way." He motioned to the west – or, apparently, north – with the muzzle of his sniper rifle.

Smothering her pride with necessity, she altered their course accordingly. Sure enough, to Boone's credit and her chagrin, the gate to Freeside came into view no more than an hour later.

At first, she thought it was a mirage. But then she realized it was too ugly to be a mirage. Or else her imagination was really underwhelming these days. The gate was a faded red, stained darker in some places with something that was most certainly not paint. Surrounding it was a plume of colorful billboards whose logos and text had long since been worn away by the wastes. It was still a sight for sore, sand-aggravated eyes which said a lot about the state of the Mojave, and nothing good.

Marie wasn't used to handing out gratitude, but she was making the effort to become more personable and decided to give it a try now. "Thanks," she said.

Boone gave her a bewildered look – or she assumed it was confusion, anyway. With those sunglasses on, it was almost impossible for her to read his expression beyond the defaults: Pissed Off and Only Mildly Annoyed. Marie had enough trouble picking up on verbal cues and body language (the non-violent kind) as it was without being deprived of the insight gained through the so-called windows of the soul.

"For what?" he replied once he'd recovered from the surprise.

Damn. He was supposed to say, _you're welcome_. Now she had to explain herself. Something she was even worse at than expressing thanks. "The course correction. You were right. I was going the wrong way."

"Oh," he said. "Yeah. You're welcome."

There it was! With that said and done, Marie proceeded through the gate into Freeside, secure in the knowledge that she'd observed the appropriate customs. Boone followed behind, silent as ever, and probably thinking she was some kind of crazy. But then, who wasn't out here in the Mojave? Because that was a person Marie would like very much to meet.

- . - . -

Her wish was granted sooner rather than later. Everyone she talked to, everywhere she went, all roads seemed to lead to someone called 'The King'. Intrigued, Marie decided to check out this self-proclaimed monarch.

He wasn't exactly hard to find. She just had to follow the trail of strangely-dressed men with the uniform jackets and hair-dos. The building, big with neon letters that spelled out _The King's School of Impersonation_, also helped. A few of the gang members milled about the exterior, clearing any further doubt. They gave her suspicious, almost dirty looks as she neared. Didn't bother her. Marie was used to far worse. As far as welcoming parties went, this wasn't half bad. At least no one was shaking her down for caps . . .

"What do we have here?" sneered one man not long after she'd stepped inside. He moved forward, placing a hand in front of her and effectively barring her from the door. Marie let her hand drop to her revolver – an instinctive act, like a porcupine bristling its needles. "Another petitioner for the King?"

"Just exploring," she said, and made to go around him.

This just riled the guard dog with the funny voice. "Exploring, huh? Like hell. We're not some tourist trap like the Strip. We don't let just anyone walk around the King's joint."

"Who's the King anyway?"

He blinked, looking as shocked as if she'd hit him. Which really wasn't such a bad idea. "Who's the King?" he said. "Are you shitting me? In Freeside, the Kings rule. And the King rules the Kings. Got it?"

She nodded. "Got it. Can I see this King of Kings now?"

"Anything's possible, I suppose. How much is it worth to you to meet the big man?"

Correction: it seemed she _was_ getting shaked down for caps, after all. Big surprise. Must have been Monday. Or any other day of the week that ended in Y.

Frowning, Marie tried to remember that violence was not always the answer. She knew how she would have handled this situation in the old days. Her hand caressed the smooth metal casing of her revolver. Those were the good ol' days. Except they weren't all that good, nor had they occurred all that long ago, and they had ended up getting her shot in the head. The weapon stayed holstered.

"For once, I'd like to go somewhere where they pay _me_ for my time and effort," she grumbled to Boone as she rifled through her pockets for some caps. She withdrew an amount that seemed fair. "Fifty caps." Chump change, really. For a chump.

The man's greedy grin turned satisfied as he accepted the bribe. "You know what? I think you and the King have some business to discuss." He unlocked the door, kicking it open with his foot. "Head on through. The King's the bored-looking guy by the stage. Can't fuckin' miss him."

Marie walked past him, sparing him a deserved kick in the shin but not from a withering glare. She never let her displeasure go unknown. And he certainly wasn't getting a thanks for his information, especially when she'd had to pay for it out of pocket. Boone moved past him, bumping none-too-gently into the doorman's shoulder "accidentally". Yep, Boone was okay in her book.

If she was expecting a palace, she would have been sorely disappointed by what apparently served as the King's throne room. It was just a room like any other, converted into something that tried to pass itself off as a theatre. There was a stage, sure, some tables and chairs, but it lacked the same flair as other establishments she'd run across. Up on stage, there was one of the gang members, singing a song about a hotel. He was off-key, and shaking his hips in a way she'd never seen, even from prostitutes trying to lure in their next customer. It was just . . . not good.

Tearing her gaze from the train wreck of a performance, she noticed the gentleman seated at the table front and center. He had stopped watching the act, instead focusing his attentions on a cyber dog to his side. Marie guessed this was the man she was looking for.

As soon as she was a few feet from him, the King took notice of the new arrival. And Marie took notice of the King, getting a good look at him for the first time.

He was not like most people she'd met, in the Mojave or elsewhere. For one, he looked her straight in the eyes, as if he had nothing at all in the whole wide world to hide. What surprised her even more is the kindness she saw in those blue eyes. It put her ill at ease, despite his otherwise relaxing presence and calm demeanor. And the other thing was his clean state of dress; he cut a handsome figure in his white, neatly pressed suit. All in all, the King's whole manner was, well, _kingly_.

"Look, Rexie, someone new's come to see us." He ran a loving hand through the mutt's fur once more before resuming a straighter posture. "Poor boy. He hasn't been feeling well lately." As if remembering his manners, he motioned to the empty chair opposite him. "But, please, have a seat."

Marie sat down.

"Now, what can I do for you?"

"You always charge people to come talk to you?" she began, still miffed over the lost caps.

His brows knitted together in momentary confusion, then smoothed back into a neat line. "You'll have to forgive Pacer," he said. "He means well. How much did he take from you?"

"Fifty caps."

To her surprise, the King handed exactly that amount back to her. Reimbursing her from his own wallet. "There you are. I apologize for the inconvenience."

She stared at him, wide-eyed. He was just giving her back the caps? Just like that? Wait, she was supposed to say something here, right? "Thank you," she blurted out, a little too late. Her hesitation had crossed the threshold line into the territory of awkward. If he noticed her fumbling gratitude, he pretended not to.

"You're welcome. Now, I don't think we've been properly introduced. I'm the King."

He had extended a hand but it remained lonely in the air. She looked at it for a few seconds, warily as if it would shock or bite her, then gave it a quick, tentative shake. "Marie," she answered brusquely.

"Pretty name, Marie," he said with a smile that all but charmed her in an instant. This one was dangerous, she decided. Not in a bang-bang, shoot-em-up kind of way, but in another way that she didn't have a word for. "So tell me, Marie, what can the King do for you today?"

"I was actually hoping you might have some work for me," she said, glad to be getting back to something she understood.

"Maybe so. Maybe so. You do look like someone who can handle themselves, and Freeside could use all the help it can get. Together, I'm sure we'll be able to come to some sort of an arrangement." That smile of his returned, full force. It did something inexplicable to her insides. Marie didn't like the peculiar feeling, but she reserved judgment on the man himself. "Who knows? This could even be the start of a beneficial partnership. What do you say?"

The courier leaned back in her seat, kicked her feet onto the table.

"At your service, Mr. King."


	2. The Wonder of You

There was something to be said about a woman with steel determination and the iron to match it. The King had met so few in his lifetime that when one happened across his domain, he couldn't help but take notice. Marie had only been in town for a few days and already she'd made Freeside a safer place – something the King had been trying and failing to do for months. Initially, when he'd given her the tasks, he hadn't honestly expected such positive results. Seemed like the woman put out fires everywhere she went. The how left him nothing short of impressed, but it was the why that kept him wondering about the vigilante and her elusive motives.

She was a baffling contradiction, his courier. Hard, brown eyes set in a pretty, porcelain face. Short in height, thin in frame, even fragile looking but certainly no push-over. Every time he saw her, she was sporting a new cut here or a different bruise there. But it was the other guy, he imagined, that was probably in far worse shape.

The way he heard the boys tell it, she was mighty good with that revolver of hers. His men had been keeping an eye on their new ally since she'd stepped foot inside the city walls. Reports of her activities were constantly making their way to his ear, but not all accounts were created equal. Primary sources or otherwise, the King was constantly having to separate the fact from the fiction, not an easy thing to do when dealing with such an extraordinary person. Stories of her taking on thugs and junkies were often the most wildly exaggerated. Never mind that business of her getting into the Lucky 38.

With a variety of subjects on his mind, not the least of them being Marie, the King decided to take the air.

"Come on, Rexie," he said, standing and summoning his loyal pet. The cyber dog bounded up, barking happily as it danced a little circle around its master. "Let's go for a walk." Freeside didn't exactly make for exciting scenery but it was better than sitting and staring at the School's crumbling walls for a few hours. Maybe he'd visit the Atomic Wrangler, or . . .

The King didn't know how she got there, but there she was. Practically straight out of his thoughts, almost like a sign. It was a coincidence he simply couldn't overlook.

He crossed the street over to the courier, Rex on his heels.

Upon his approach, he thought he saw her expression brighten, but it could just as easily have been a trick of the light. The Mojave sun was high in the sky and sparing no expense when it came to the hot and dry weather. It looked like Marie was trying to catch her breath in the shade of one of Freeside's many dilapidated buildings. She threw back a dirty bottle of water, gulping down large quantities. Her black hair remained plastered to her face by pearls of sweat. The King had to smile at her resilience. This lady of the wastes was certainly no delicate flower.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said with his signature lip curl.

"I could say the same thing," Marie replied. "I was beginning to think the King never left his ivory tower."

He laughed. "Only when he has occasion to do so. Say to meet a pretty woman walking down the street."

She looked at him with skeptic's eyes. His flattery had yet to penetrate her thick skin, but that didn't mean he'd stop trying. It made him a little sad to see such defensive reactions to mere kindness. The King didn't have to wonder about what kind of life made such a cold, cautious person; he'd seen what the world did to people first-hand. Marie was a victim to its cruelty as much as anyone else, he supposed.

Even so, he remained curious about the woman's past, especially since she went to such lengths to keep it hidden. Not only from him, but everyone. His network of eyes and ears were at as much a loss now as when she'd first showed up on the scene. No one knew anything about her, except her former employment with the Mojave Express. Before that, it was a mystery where the courier had come from, or what sort of life she'd been living there. Whatever skeletons she had – and he had no doubt she had some – they must have been buried deep within the wasteland.

"You're looking a little scorched, if you don't mind me saying," he went on before she slipped again from his presence like a desert mirage. Always coming and going, she was a very hard woman to pin down for very long. "Can I buy you a drink?"

However innocent an offer, the question appeared to catch her off guard. Brows went up, eyes widened, and she gave a curious tilt of her head. There was something almost shy about her in that moment, quiet and girl-like. Delight, or maybe hope, colored her inquisitive gaze. But it was fast replaced by that same, cool façade that she favored so much. For those few seconds, though, he felt he'd seen the more vulnerable woman beneath that hard shell. He could understand why she hid that softer side, but found himself wishing she wouldn't. Not from him.

His own feelings on the matter surprised him, most of all.

"Are you propositioning me, Mr. King?" she asked.

Wearing a friendly smile, he held his hands out in an honest gesture of _nothing up my sleeves_. "It's the least I can do after all you've done for Freeside."

Marie took a few moments to decide, and finally nodded. "Then I accept."

- . - . -

What began as a drink between acquaintances gradually turned into a meal between new friends. Everything ended up being on the house, courtesy of the Garret Twins who appreciated the business the King's gang brought in as well as the help Marie had lent them recently for something or the other. They even threw in a Salisbury steak for ol' Rex.

Over the course of the afternoon, the pair talked about all manner of things, from the nature of the King's School of Impersonation to what the Kings stood for; namely freedom and respect for all. She was receptive to the idea, though he could tell she had her doubts that it could be achieved. Not surprising; he had his own, truth be told. But most curious was the fact that every time he tried to approach anything about Marie or her life, all he got for his efforts was the run around. So skirting the apparently sensitive topic, he kept to lighter subjects and was ultimately rewarded for his patience.

It was during their conversation that the King saw Marie smile for the first time.

The odd thing was he couldn't remember the last thing he'd said, or what had prompted the rare expression. Suddenly she was smiling at him, and he was smiling back at her, and the King felt like he understood some of his namesake's songs a little bit better.

"You're not like most people I've met in the wastes," she told him, her eyes darting bashfully between her plate and his face. "It's hard to believe there's anyone left who's so . . . _decent_."

"Hey, now, darlin'," the King objected. "I wouldn't sell yourself short in that regard."

Looking at him with a very straight and certain gaze, the mirth faded from her eyes, and she stated, "I'm not a decent person, Mr. King."

"No?"

"No," she repeated, eyes downcast now. "But I'm trying to be."

She was a curious thing, no doubt about it. He watched her stab at her food, moving the morsel around the ridge of the plate before finally eating it. Everything seemed deliberate, calculated with her. It was somewhere between interesting and strange.

But he didn't correct her about her morality, that would have been rude seeing as he was speaking from a place of ignorance. For all he knew, her words were simple fact; and she wasn't a very good person, only playing at it. So instead, he replied, "That's all any of us can really do, I think. But you play at something long enough, and it becomes a part of you. Takes time, hard work. Keep at it and you'll get there." He grinned knowingly. "Trust me on that one."

Once he'd been a nobody, just another wastelander trying to survive. Now, he was the King. The transformation wasn't immediate; it didn't happen overnight. Actions spoke louder than words, and hers were screaming for a second chance. She wanted to be a good guy? He'd say, she was well on her way there.

Rex barked, having finished his meal but clearly hankering for more. Marie set her plate and its remaining contents on the floor for him. The dog eyed her suspiciously for a few moments, then proceeded to devour his second lunch.

"You're gonna spoil him rotten, you keep that up," the King told her, though the laughter in his voice diminished the warning.

She laughed. He liked the sound. "We're in New Vegas, right? I'll chance it."

The King couldn't argue with that logic. This was the land ruled by Miss Fortune – and misfortune. Two sides of the same coin, really. Lady Luck was a fickle lover.

"If you have a moment more," he went on, recalling something he'd been meaning to bring up with the courier. "I wanted to discuss a little something else with you. You've helped me plenty, and I know you haven't asked for anything in return, but I always pay back my debts. As an expression of my gratitude, just this once, name whatever you want, and if I can make it happen, it's done."

Marie's professional face returned. All business, no pleasure. He almost regretted bringing up the subject, but his offer stood.

"Can I think about it?"

"Sure." He nodded. "Toss it around in your head a little. No need to rush it."

"I'll do that," she said, then gave him another small smile. It was almost puckish in nature, showing yet another side to the multifaceted woman. "You know . . . I've never had the favor of a king before."

He leaned back in his seat, casual-like. "Well, can't say I'm surprised. I don't go handin' them out to just anyone."

She stood up. "Then I'll make sure to use it wisely. When the time comes."

"See that you do," he agreed. "When the time comes."


	3. Hound Dog, Part 1

The wastes were a lonely place. This was the only explanation she could conceive of for why her injuries liked to come in pairs, never one at a time. She couldn't just break her leg, she had to break her arm, too. She couldn't just get stabbed, she had to get shot, too. An ironic buddy system that worked against her safety, instead of in its defense. And it had been like this for as long as she could remember. Only, as a child, it had been scraped knees and colorful bruises instead of life-threatening wounds; difference was these boo-boos didn't heal all better with a mere kiss from her mother.

Hell, over the years, Marie had practically made getting hurt into an art form – one she was unfortunately more than proficient at. Some might have called it talent, this ability to survive such an vast array of damage. She just called it damned painful.

After a particularly grueling encounter with a party of Fiends, she was really hurting. A lack of stimpaks just made a bad situation worse; she'd had to substitute the medicine with cheap chems just to keep upright. Marie had initially refused Boone's offer of assistance, but a few miles had since changed her mind. With her one good arm slung around his waist – because he was too tall for her to hug his shoulder – she limped along with only the occasional complaint. Usually about the landscape (whose course nature was not conducive to a cripple) or the weather (which was being a typical nuisance). Boone supported her weight in his usual silence, and when he did speak it was to point out a rock or crevice that could give her trouble. Marie was bloody, beaten, possibly suffering from a little heat stroke, but _not_ blind. She kept her irritable thoughts to herself. He was, after all, only trying to help.

Still, the courier couldn't help thinking that when he'd agreed to be her spotter, this wasn't exactly what she'd had in mind.

They made it to Freeside in a couple of hours, reaching the not-so-pearly gates around late midday. From there the Old Mormon Fort, home to the Followers of the Apocalypse, was just a hop and a skip away. In her state, hopping and/or skipping was completely out of the question, but the fact remained that treatment was within arm's reach. And not a moment too soon, because the combination of Jet and Buffout was beginning to wear off.

She staggered inside, and into a new scene of conflict.

The King and Julie Farkas were arguing about something, loudly. Angrily. Something had the normally polite and passive King riled. He kept exaggerating with his hands, pointing to his cyber dog. Rex, wasn't it? The animal looked downright pitiful, laying on the dirt ground with mournful eyes turned upward. He whined plaintively. Farkas stayed calm in the face of the King's blustering, but Marie could tell that the tense situation was reaching toward its boiling point. Followers of the Apocalypse had gathered round, ready to intervene if necessary.

"Maybe we should hit the Wrangler instead," Boone suggested, obviously not interested in dealing with this. Marie was tempted to side with him. Her injuries were beginning to catch up to her; this wasn't really the time to test her endurance or diplomatic acumen. On the other hand, the King was a friend. Sort of. Kind of. If she squinted. "Not our problem," he added practically, as if sensing her indecision.

Marie heard the hard crack as bone connected with bone. Her eyes snapped back to Farkas and the King. Both were fine, but there was now a young man on the ground and he was out cold. The King's hand was tight in a fist. It wasn't hard to piece together what had happened. Everyone was giving him a wider berth now, except Farkas who was tending to the downed doctor and looking small parts rattlesnake. This was her territory, and she was going to defend it, if need be.

"Now it is," she said, making a choice.

Whether it was wise, given her condition, she wasn't sure. If there was one thing she'd learned in recent days, it was that the right decision and the stupid decision weren't always mutually exclusive. Matters of heart often encompassed both.

"Bad idea," Boone murmured, but didn't stop her as she released him, her crutch.

Sheer determination mixed with chems were enough to keep her body mostly obedient to the demands she was placing on it – for the moment. Adrenaline made up the difference. She moved toward the pair of Freeside giants who remained locked in their duel of wills. Having the head of the Kings and the leader of the Followers at one another's throats boded ill for the state of the struggling city.

"Like hell, you can't," the King was saying. "This place is full of doctors. One of 'em should be able to do somethin'."

Having tended to her injured ward, Farkas drew herself up. "Like I told you before, we simply don't have the experience to deal with Rex's unique problem. I'm sorry."

Marie reached the King just as he upended one of the tables.

"That's not good enough!" he barked.

She quickly – or as quickly as one can when one's got a wounded leg – maneuvered herself between the King and Farkas. His eyes widened. He was surprised to see her, no doubt. The anger drained from his face momentarily, and she had a hope that maybe this whole thing could be resolved peacefully. Minus the punch already thrown, and that table wasn't getting up any time soon either.

"What's going on here?" Marie asked.

"Rex here is sick," the King explained with a torn note in his voice. She looked down at the dog who did appear to be much less energetic than usual. "Has been for some time now. They say his brain is bad, but they won't help him."

Marie realized something then, watching him speak with so much concern about his pet. The King was more than just upset. He was afraid – of losing a friend and companion. Rex must have been those things to him, much more than just some dog he'd picked up from a merchant, like he'd originally implied. Behind the anger was fear; behind the fear was love. It would certainly explain why he was on such a war path.

"It's not like that," Julie Farkas replied. "We simply don't have the tools to help Rex. He requires brain surgery, and some sophisticated cybernetics work, too."

This wasn't what the King wanted to hear, obviously. He made to step toward Farkas again, intimating a threat, but Marie prevented him by placing her hands to his chest. It was all she could think to do, and immediately regretted it. She winced, not from the contact, but from her broken arm. The King backed down.

"This isn't helping," she told him.

His features remained conflicted, dark. "What am I supposed to do? Nothing? A king can't sit on his hands forever. This King won't. Not when Rexie's life is on the line."

It was hard to think clearly through her physical discomfort. The effort was draining. "I wouldn't expect you to," she agreed. "I'll be the first to admit, I don't have a solution. Yet. But we'll figure something out. Later. Not like this."

Reason finally found an anchor through her words, and held fast. The King nodded, and in a few moments returned to his usual sensibilities. Farkas appeared to relax some, and Marie let her hands fall back to her sides. Order restored, situation defused, mission accomplished. She didn't feel as proud as she was tired. With her levels of adrenaline plummeting, she found it hard to ignore her injuries any longer.

Marie swayed on her feet, and might have fallen if not for the King. He steadied her.

His soft, blue eyes took in her haggard appearance. It was then he noticed the dark stains on her sleeve. "You're hurt," he said, not a question. She didn't bother contradicting him, and merely nodded. The big boss man emerged as the King swept a commanding gaze across the staggered line of goggling physicians. For the first time, she was getting to see the strong hand of leadership that had earned him his title in action. "Well, don't just stand there twiddling your thumbs, boys. You're still doctors, aren't you? Do something about this. The lady here needs some help."

She could take care of herself, but wasn't conceited enough to object to the King's orders. He actually had the right idea; she badly needed medical aid. Sooner, not later. It was just different – and a bit confusing – to have someone fighting in her corner. Different, but not necessarily bad. His concern was actually a little . . . touching? Was that the right word for this warm, fuzzy feeling spreading through her gut? Marie dismissed the train of thought, reminded herself of her priorities, and instead focused on what she'd come here for: treatment.

The King helped her to one of the tents, and she crashed into a wobbly chair.

"Can't remember the last time I actually got to sit down," Marie said, somewhere near delighted to be off her feet finally.

There wasn't any time for private conversation to pass between the pair before they were joined by a blonde man and his doctor's bag. Clinical was really the only way she could think to describe the newcomer. His calculating eyes were surrounded by black-rimmed glasses, and she certainly felt like a patient beneath his scrutinizing gaze. He also wore a white lab coat like the rest of the Followers, as if to eliminate any doubt as to his profession and allegiance.

"You take good care of her, y'hear?" the King told the doctor, intentionally quiet but Marie managed to overhear. That bizarre feeling returned, fluttering in her stomach for a few seconds before it was overridden by other, more painful sensations.

"That is my job," the doctor pointed out, and then the King left.

She had to admit, she was sorry to see him go. Especially since it didn't look like he had wanted to leave. But if he hadn't, why did he? She had no answer, and that didn't really surprise her. Marie rarely understood the motivations of others, beyond greed and vengeance and rage. Those were easy, visceral emotions. It was the altruistic, often ambiguous ones that left her scratching her head.

"Arcade Gannon."

Marie blinked. "What?"

"My name. I figured we should get those pesky introductions out of the way before I start probing you," he said. She just stared at him. "That was a joke," he clarified. "And . . . obviously not a very good one. Which is why I work as a researcher and not a doctor. Lack of people skills, you understand."

He was retrieving some instruments from his bag. Sharp, metal things that she didn't trust as tools. They looked more like weapons, at least to her.

"You're not a doctor?" she said, withdrawing from him.

The so-called doctor looked up. "Oh, no. I am. But bedside manner wasn't included in my training, so Julie usually sticks me in the back of the fort to work. Your friend the King didn't make any friends when he punched out Julian, though. Hence, you get me."

Marie wasn't sold on his qualifications. She was starting to have second thoughts about letting this guy operate on her arm and leg.

Dr. Gannon ventured a small smile. "Don't look so worried. You'll hurt my feelings." He waited. Marie waited. Was he expecting her to say something? If she looked worried, that was because she _was_ worried. "That's another joke. You know, why don't I just patch you up now?"

"Just, be careful," she told him. "I need those limbs."

"Let's see what we're dealing with here."

After a brief survey of her injuries, Gannon finally passed a verdict. "Hmm. I'd love to give you some stimpaks and send you on your merry way, but this kind of damage requires a little more finesse to fix. Mind telling me how it happened?"

"Ran into a pack of Fiends. One of the bastards had a lead pipe. Should tell you everything you need to know."

"The injuries are certainly consistent with blunt force trauma. Looks like your arm here is broken."

"I could have told you that."

"Leg's not as bad," he went on, ignoring her quip. "I'll give you some Med-X for the pain before I get started."

She wasn't at all squeamish and watched him go about his work diligently. The chem helped with the pain, but couldn't dam off some of the stronger torrents that flooded her system because of a particularly stinging needle here or an accidental bump there. Although she tried to remain silent throughout the process, several times had her crying out – such as when he set her arm. Marie liked to think she had a higher pain tolerance than most, but even her threshold was being pushed to the limit.

"So you and the King, huh? I wouldn't have pinned you as the sort. You don't look like one of his typical groupies," Gannon commented then looked at her expectantly. What, he wanted to engage in some chit-chat? Now? It was easy for him to talk; he wasn't being sewn up. She cursed his ability to multi-task.

"I don't know what you mean," she answered.

He paused, looked at her. Was that skepticism she saw in his eyes? And what the hell was a _groo-pee_? "Ah," he said, returning his attention to the task at hand. "Well, never mind. That would explain it then. Let me just remove this foot from my mouth . . ."

Marie thought he might have been done with his strange talk, hoped he was, but he resumed a minute later. It only occurred to her then that maybe this was a conversation meant to distract her from the procedure, but she couldn't be sure this blonde doctor was clever enough for that. She didn't know him well enough to tell.

"It's just that I've never seen anyone handle him like that before. He's a nice guy and all, don't get me wrong. But when it comes to that dog of his . . . Did you know this was the second time this week he's come down here? His mutt must be getting worse."

"Is there really nothing you can do for Rex?" Marie was surprised at the concern she heard in her own voice. She was surprised she cared.

"Everything Julie said is true. We don't have the equipment or the know-how."

But. She could practically hear the word in the air.

"Julie did mention this old scientist before – Dr. Henry, I think, who specializes in the sort of procedure that the King's cyber dog would need. I'm guessing he'd be your best bet. That is, if you're looking to help out. Last I heard, he was living up in Jacobstown, far to the Northwest. Not an easy trip, by any means."

Before he was even done speaking, Marie had decided to commit to the venture. Now it was her own motivations that baffled her. It should have been a simple formula of helping someone in need because it was the right thing to do. But she couldn't help but feel as though there was more to this pressing feeling than that. She didn't feel obligated to do this great service for the King. She wanted to. Not only for Rex's benefit, but also his master's.

The doctor finished shortly. "There," he said. "All done, though you'll probably want to take it easy for a few days. Don't want anything to happen. People will talk, say my work's sloppy. My reputation would be ruined."

This time, she caught on. An eyebrow went up. "A joke, right?"

He smiled. "She can be taught."

"Thank you, Dr. Gannon," she said, and the words came easier than usual. Maybe because she meant them more than usual. "For this, and the information."

"No problem. It's what I'm here for. Well, not really. But I'm flexible."

Rising, she could feel that she wasn't quite up to snuff yet. Maybe she should take the doctor's advice, spend a few days recuperating in Freeside. It wasn't like the Mojave and its troubles were going anywhere, anytime soon. Marie knew Boone wouldn't be happy about the break – he didn't like staying put for too long, something she could definitely sympathize with – but he'd just have to suck it up for the time being. After all, what could he do? Give her the silent treatment?

She took three steps toward the exit, then stopped altogether and turned back.

Curiosity had set her thoughts a-whirling, and now she had to know. Had to understand. The implications were there, taunting her. "Earlier, when you said how I handled the King . . . Care to elaborate?"

Dr. Gannon shrugged.

"Let's just say, had anyone else done what you did, they would have ended up being black eye buddies with Julian. You must be something special. To him, at least."


	4. Hound Dog, Part 2

_A/N:_ Today's chapter is dedicated to the real life King, Mr. Elvis Presley, whose birthday it is today! Happy 76th birthday, Elvis!

- . - . -

The King sat in the _Atomic Wrangler_, trying to clean his heart from his sleeve. It had been a few hours since the incident at the fort, more than enough time for him to feel embarrassed by his behavior there. He had a reputation to uphold, after all; his boys looked to him to set the example. The Mojave was already filled with enough hot-heads to give a squadron of air balloons lift off. Freeside itself was a minefield of bad attitudes and personality flaws without his and his gang's contributions. Losing his temper like that was no way to establish a moral high ground amidst the masses. If anything, it lowered the quality standard that he had strived for so long to perfect, benefiting no one.

He was angry with himself, no doubt about it. At the same time, he couldn't imagine having done any differently. It was a no-win situation he found himself in, and the stakes were much higher than he'd like.

Rex lay at his feet, sleeping soundly. It was with a heavy heart that he watched over the old dog, much in the same way his canine companion had always watched over him. The King was burdened with the knowledge that some day soon – he didn't know when, exactly – his beloved pet would shut down. One final hardware failure, and Rex would be gone forever. No trace that he had ever existed at all, except in the King's grief. For all his influence, his wealth of contacts, he could do nothing. There were no words to describe the helplessness he felt, just waiting for the end. It was the reason why he kept going down to the fort, every chance he got, even knowing better.

The alternative was giving up, and that simply wasn't in his nature.

Meanwhile, on stage, Hadrian was performing one of his usual routines. "Hey, King, was that suit made to order?" the ghoul asked, looking at one of his few audience members. The King gave a nod, permitting the comedian his punch line. "It was? And where were you at the time?"

With a small smile, the King lifted his empty glass to acknowledge the friendly insult. This was all part of the act, all in good fun – it wasn't great, or even that funny, but they all needed ways to make a living and he wasn't about to begrudge the ghoul his. It was his firm belief that entertainers were needed in this dreary world, where smiles were in short supply and laughter all but nonexistent. Perhaps now more than ever, they needed the clowns and the actors and the musicians. As a means of escape, if nothing else.

Musing on these things, he didn't notice Francine Garret until she was setting a glass of whiskey down in front of him.

"There must be some mistake," the King said politely. "I didn't order this."

She just smiled, motioned over her shoulder.

"From the lady at the bar."

Looking past the Garret, it wasn't hard to guess which lady she meant. Marie was seated on one of the bar stools, arm in a sling. As soon as they made eye contact, she slid off of her seat and headed over to him. Rex woke upon her approach, head rising and ears shooting up. When the cyber dog saw who it was, however, he relaxed his guard some.

"Mind some company?" Marie asked with a barely perceptible smile.

"Not at all," he answered, after recovering from his initial surprise. The King stood and pulled a seat out for her, which by all accounts seemed to confound her. "In fact, I'd welcome a little company. Please."

She sat down, and he thanked her for the drink.

"You looked like you could use one," she told him. Her dark eyes were watching him, concern hidden in their depths. Had he given her cause to worry? Her expression said yes, and he supposed he had with his little display back at the fort. After a few moments, Marie appeared visibly uncomfortable with the staring contest, and looked away. She was trying though, bless her heart, and he commended her efforts with a smile.

"Maybe so," he agreed. "Though, by my estimates, I'd say you're in need of one a whole lot more than me."

He went to flag down Francine but Marie shook her head, waving him off with her good arm. "No. Nothing for me. Doctor's orders. It's probably for the best. I'm already pumped full of enough chems to put down a small Brahmin."

The King laughed, her candid nature appealing to his sense of humor. "Water it is, then," he said and then put the order on his tab before she could object.

They sat, listening to the ghoul's act for a few minutes.

"By the way," the King broke in, meeting her gaze again. "I wanted to thank you for talking some sense into me back there at the fort, and apologize for acting so rotten. Sometimes my temper gets the better of me. Next thing I know, I'm knocking out doctors."

To his surprise, and pleasure, she smiled. "Don't forget the table," she said, teasing him.

_Teasing_ him? Well, now, it seemed he was making some progress, after all.

"I'm a downright menace," the King said, chuckling.

She gave a little laugh. He couldn't help but notice how much prettier she was when that solemn mask was tossed aside. With her eyes lit in a smile, her features became that much brighter. Marie might have been wearing three kinds of dirt on her face, and a deep bruise at the base of her jaw, but her expression alone was better than any amount of makeup or flawless skin. It was real, like her. What more could he have asked for – here on the Strip, where everyone was pretending to be someone or something else?

Marie took a sip of her water and then appeared to recall something of importance. "I spoke with Julie Farkas after you left," she said. "She said there was a man in Jacobstown who can treat Rex."

"She said _what_?" He was immediately attentive, and confused. "Why didn't she just say so when I was there?"

All it took was a reminding look from Marie, and he had an answer.

"Actually, I was pretty angry while I was down there," he admitted sheepishly. "Guess it's no wonder she wasn't exactly forthcoming. Anyway, that's incredible news!" His grin faltered as reality set in. Jacobstown wasn't exactly a stone's throw away. Far from it. "Only thing is, there's too much going on around here for me to make a trip like that. And I need all of my guys just to keep things settled here . . ."

Marie was no longer looking at him, but at Rex who appeared alert and tuned into the conversation. An idea struck him.

The King leaned forward in his seat. "You seem awfully interested in my boy Rex here. And you've proven yourself a friend to me, and to Freeside. I'll tell you what. You promise to get Rexie to that doctor, and I'll lend him to you. What do you say?"

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" she said. "I don't exactly lead a quiet life on the road. It's dangerous. Things happen. I wouldn't want any harm to come to your dog."

Rex barked, and the King smirked. "I think he's sayin', he can take care of himself."

She smiled at his invention. "Alright, then. I'll see that Rex gets better. You have my word."

"I can't thank you enough –"

"Thank me after he's better," Marie told him.

He nodded. "Now, there's a few things you should know about ol' Rex here if you're going to be traveling together. First, he hates rats. Can't stand the things. Giant rats, mole rats, doesn't matter. He catches a whiff of one and he's off like a shot after them. He's normally pretty obedient, but you might have to chase him some of he goes after one of the little varmints. Second, he doesn't like hats, or the people wearing them. Don't ask. I have no idea why. Maybe because it rhymes with 'rats'."

"Oh, he's going to love Boone," she said, and the King hearkened back to a memory of the First Recon soldier she liked to travel with, and his red beret.

"That should be it, though. Other than the occasional bad spot when his brain starts hurting him, that is." He looked meaningfully at her. "But I'm hoping you'll see to that."

Marie nodded, and stood.

He looked down at his pet. Rex was already on his feet, alongside the courier. "Rex," the King began. "This is your new master. Protect her, as you would me." The dog barked his assent.

Going down on bended knee, Marie looked the dog straight in the eye. Rex looked back with his head quirked to the side. Something inexplicable passed between them – understanding, maybe. Wordless, but powerful. She reached a hand out and scratched behind his ears. His tail wagged happily, and the King reasoned that Marie had just made a new friend. One of the best and loyal ones she could ever have, in his opinion. He hoped, together, they would both stay safe.

She got back to her feet, and he knew it was time to say goodbye.

"I wish you both luck. Take care of my Rex now, y'hear?" Try as he might, he couldn't keep the emotion from his tone.

As she passed behind him, she stopped. He felt a small hand on his shoulder, followed by a gentle, reassuring squeeze. The King didn't know what to make of the foreign gesture, particularly coming from Marie. She was a woman of few words, so her actions had to do most of the talking.

"I will," was all she said, and then the warm comfort of her hand was gone.

Hadrian took the opportunity to cut in with an inappropriately-timed jibe. "This guy, right here, he's got an angel looking over his shoulder." A beat for comedic effect. "If I were him, I'd get a restraining order!"

The King couldn't tell how the ghoul's commentary went over with the all-too-serious Marie, because she was already headed toward the door with Rex in tow. He watched her retreating back, and found himself sad to see her go. Before he knew it, he was on his feet and following after her.

"One more thing, before you go," he said, catching her at the _Wrangler_'s threshold. "You have anywhere to stay tonight?"

"Not unless you count a patch of dirt and an old mattress at the fort," Marie replied. "Why?"

"In that case, I'd like to extend to you an invitation. You're welcome to stay at the School, whenever you like. Seeing as you're going to all this trouble for me, least I can do is put you up in some decent accommodations. Consider it free room and board, courtesy of the Kings." He leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "And between you and me, I hate to see a pretty lady sleeping on the street."

Her normally sharp eyes regarded him with a softness that suggested his compliment had hit its mark, for once. She did that thing where she tilted her head to look at him, visibly uncertain. Truth be told, he was beginning to delight in that baffled little expression she gave in the face of an act of kindness. It was endearing, in its own way.

"Are you sure?" she asked, ever the skeptic.

"We have plenty of room to spare," he reassured her. "Don't worry."

Marie pushed a few errant strands of black hair out of her face, looked from the exit back toward the stage. "Maybe I can stay a while longer," she said, moving a mischievous gaze to the King. "Give that stupid ghoul a run for his money."

Laughing, he told her, "Now that's an act I'd pay to see."

And with a gentleman's hand on her lower back, he guided them back to their table.


	5. Crying in the Chapel

Marie woke in a cold sweat, her heart swollen with dread.

Around her, nothing seemed familiar. Everything was darkness and shadows, immaterial specters trying to follow her from her dreams. She felt for her gun and found it beneath her pillow. The revolver was cool against her hot flesh, comforting only for the few moments she thought she might have to use it. While a well-placed bullet could solve most problems in the Wasteland, or make them that much worse on a bad day, they proved altogether ineffective against ghosts of the past. Hers, specifically. In the courier's experience, it was those skeletons in her closet that were the hardest to kill. They refused to stay dead, the stubborn bastards, instead choosing to live on in her nightmares.

She kicked her feet free of the tangled covers, and threw her legs over the side of the bed. After enough sleepless nights over the years, Marie knew when she was beat. Didn't matter that she was tired, or that she was in sore need of some rest, or that she would probably end up being extremely unpleasant in the morning. If she laid back down, all that awaited her behind closed eyes was a lifetime of regret. Her head sank into her hands and, rubbing her face, she released a ragged breath. All she knew was this sort of thing hadn't been a problem before she'd gotten shot. Who would've guessed that her second chance would come replete with insomnia? Amazing thing, a conscience. And inconvenient _beyond words_.

It was nothing a little air couldn't fix, though, even the irradiated kind. Having convinced herself of this, Marie stood and made her way to the door. In the process, she nearly tripped over Rex who was curled up in the middle of the floor. The dog growled out his displeasure, but a quick pet on the head calmed him down. Now awake, Rex seemed ready to play a rousing game of Follow the Leader. Except, in this instance, the leader in question didn't want to be followed.

"Stay," she whispered, and he laid back down with only a whine of protest. It drew a reluctant smile from her. "Good dog, Rex."

None of this seemed to disturb Boone who Marie was under the impression could sleep through the Second Coming. He was nearest the door, back to the wall, and was for all intents and purposes dead to the world. His cherished sniper rifle was cradled in his arms like a sleeping babe, one hand still wrapped secure around the barrel. That wasn't the strange part. With eyes shut tight, his brows kept furrowing together, his lips forming around silent syllables. Most people looked peaceful when unconscious, but not Boone. He looked troubled. She wondered if this was the way she looked, too, when she was asleep and dreaming – not of sugar plum fairies.

Taking the utmost care not to wake him – or anyone else, for that matter – Marie headed downstairs. The _King's School_ was normally a place of activity, bustling with young men wearing their signature Jailhouse Rockers and assuming some pre-war persona. Now, the building and all those inside slumbered, resulting in an atmosphere that wasn't as flamboyant as it was lonely.

Upon reaching the top of the stair well, a peculiar sound floated up. The walls carried it to her, and she stopped to listen for a time.

"_You saw me crying in the chapel, the tears I shed were tears of joy . . ._"

A man's voice, and he was singing. The melody was haunting, which was fitting considering how like a lost spirit Marie felt at that moment, wandering the empty halls with guilt beating in her chest. This music was unlike any she'd heard before, sublime in its simplicity, chilling in its effect. Honest.

She decided to find its source.

"_I've searched, and I've searched, but I couldn't find no way on Earth to gain peace of mind._"

It didn't take very long for her to find the musician, just a few lines of verse. With unnecessary stealth, she peered around the door frame. The theatre was draped in black except for a single spot on the stage. Swathed in flickering light from the ceiling, the King sat at the edge of the stage with a guitar in hand. Adroit fingers plucked the strings with expertise, the kind that came only with years of play. With eyes closed, an expression of contentment was etched into his features. She watched him there, singing in a baritone voice that would have made angels weep to hear it.

Marie didn't notice her own eyes, hot and stinging.

"_Now I'm happy in the chapel, where people are of one accord_," he continued, a mild tremble accenting the powerful words. "_Yes, we gather in the chapel, just to sing and praise the Lord._"

Religion wasn't talked about much these days, unless it was in the context of an obscenity. Marie herself had only come across it on a few occasions, usually when people were begging for their lives. For the love of God, they'd say. She always thought that was a curious expression. It was often followed by the usual pleas for mercy – all of which went unheard, by both her and said great deity. At the time, she hadn't thought much of it; spirituality had been wasted on the assassin-who-would-be-courier. But now? Paths of redemption, such as the one she found herself on, were riddled with questions of purpose. Some might have scorned people of faith, but Marie just sought to understand.

A sharp pain shot through her arm, still in the process of healing, at the same time a hand yanked her backwards. Startled, she barely had time to reign in her survival instincts which would have led to her laying out the unfortunate intruder with a punch to the trachea or a knee to the groin.

"Well, what do we have here?" She recognized Pacer by his sneer; otherwise, he looked just like any other Kings member. Minus the manners. "A thief? NCR spy maybe?"

"Stand down, Pacer."

Marie hadn't even realized the King had stopped playing until he was standing in front of them, still holding his guitar in one hand.

"Miss Marie here's our guest," he went on to explain. "And I expect you to treat her as such."

"You didn't see the way she was watching you, boss," Pacer objected, shooting Marie a dirty look. She was starting to regret not having followed her gut and giving the chump what was probably a long time coming to him. A beat-down of epic proportions. "Probably planning on killing you when your back was turned or somethin'."

"Or something," Marie agreed, which just served to make Pacer angrier.

Luckily, all it took was a few words more from the King to send the weasel scurrying back to whatever hole he'd crawled out of. "Pace, you're looking a bit worse for wear there. Why don't you go catch a few Z's? I can handle things from here."

"You're nursin' a viper at your breast," he said, setting up his parting shot. His glare threatened a dozen other insults, but he finished with, "Sure hope she's worth it."

As he stalked off like a predator denied his meal, the King simply shook his head.

"I wish I could say I don't know what's gotten into him, but I do," he said, lamenting the fact in not so many words. "The influx of NCR troopers and refugees in Freeside has him on edge. Perhaps for good reason." Marie could see in the stress lines of the King's face and the look in his eyes that Pacer wasn't the only one bothered by this particular vein of trouble. The King just hid it better, concealing a world of malcontent behind a carefully constructed façade of _savoir faire_. It was admirable – at least she could see no harm to it.

"Anyway," he went on, adapting his frown into a smile. "I wish I'd known I was giving a performance earlier. I would have taken requests."

Marie glanced down. "I'm sorry about that. I didn't mean to interrupt you."

He shook his head. "Nothing to be sorry for," he assured her. Then he got real quiet, and Marie was forced to look back up at him. His brows had come together in a look of concern. She didn't understand it until he reached out a finger and brushed something from her cheek. There was care and gentleness in the act, such as Marie had not been shown in . . . She couldn't remember how long. "What's this now?" the King asked. "Tears?"

She jerked her head back, and eradicated the remaining tears through a few, almost violent wipes. It had been so long since Marie had cried that she'd forgotten the signs. Traveling through the Mojave, her eyes were always irritated in some way. But she was inside, there was nothing here to aggravate her eyes, except for the soft, sweet melodies sung by a pure soul on an old guitar. To say that she was surprised at herself would have been an understatement. To say that she was embarrassed, that would have been hitting it right on the nose.

"Must be my arm," she lied. Her arm did hurt, but that wasn't the cause. Just a byproduct of being manhandled by Pacer.

Convinced or not, the King took her for her word. "I'll tell you what," he said, guiding her into the theatre and seating her at one of the tables. "Why don't I play a little more for you? Take your mind off of it."

"I couldn't ask you to do that . . ." She would never dare, point in fact.

He smirked, took a seat opposite Marie, and let his fingers drift across the strings. She watched him, this curious man with the peculiar voice, curling lip, and soft-hearted smile. Even now, she didn't know quite what to make of him. All she knew was the effect of that smile, how it was like a shot of plasma to her insides, reducing her to her basest parts – a plethora of emotions that she had long since thought dead and gone. A deluge of feeling from a dried-up source.

Marie guessed the King was sort of like her own personal miracle, in that sense.

"I figured as much," he went on to say. "You know, you've never asked me for a single thing. In all the time I've known you. Not one thing. I'm not sure what to make of it, to tell the truth."

"Guess I'm a cheap date," Marie said.

His laughter was its own music, at least to her ears. "You are, at that."

She smiled.

The King struck a chord on his guitar. The dark theatre lit up with sound; she imagined it warm and colorful against the grey silence. Then, fixing her with a meaningful gaze she couldn't tear her eyes from, he began singing again, picking up right where he'd left off. "_You'll search and you'll search, but you'll never find no way on earth to gain peace of mind_.

"_Take your troubles to the chapel. Get down on your knees and pray. Your burdens will be lighter, and you'll surely find the way_." He finished without any flourish or exuberance. Just a simple tapering off in quiet conclusion, the strings finally going still.

Marie wasn't sure how to respond, and she didn't trust her voice, so she imitated what she'd seen others do after performances at the Aces Theatre. She clapped.

"Thank you," he said, with a modest chuckle. "Thank you very much."

As he set his guitar to the side, she asked him, "Do you believe in what you sing?"

"Sometimes. Other times, they're just dressed-up words. More a comfort than anything else."

She nodded, absorbing the wisdom of his answer. It was something else for her to think on, late at night, when all she had were her sins to keep her company. Except now, Marie would also have his song – its beauty and its reassurance, its hope. Maybe it would be enough to keep the monsters away.


	6. Dinner at Eight

At day's end, the King found himself looking West toward Jacobstown, often without thinking or meaning to, and his thoughts would inevitably turn to Marie.

She was out there somewhere, beyond his small sphere of influence, outside the minimal protection he could offer. He was in the dark about her exact whereabouts, only able to hazard a guess at her location. Rex was with her, at least, but that was small comfort to him when he considered the many dangers facing them out in the Wasteland. It had been so long since he himself had ventured beyond Freeside and the Strip that it was easy to forget about the creatures and Fiends lurking just beyond the gate. Most of the time, they were just a scratching noise near the fence, tolling shots during the witching hour. Monsters beneath the bed, as good as nonexistent. Nothing to worry about, until now.

The sky had since turned the color of dried mustard seed, browning with night's approach. Soon, it would all be darkness and stars and dreams, for some. His shadow grew long behind him, his face longer as he watched the sun dip below the horizon, following the same course as the sinking feeling in his gut.

Another day had come and gone, but still there was no sign of the courier.

If he was being honest, his interest in Miss Marie wasn't always solely professional. She had made a real, lasting impression on him – the likes of which few others had in recent memory. Time was you couldn't pay someone to do the quality work she did, and in half the time she did it. But that was business, impersonal. The King didn't like to think of people as commodities to use and discard; they were human beings, each deserving of a chance to make their own way and pursue their own happiness. Seen in this light, it was impossible to stay removed. He made friends, he cared. Sometimes, too much. It simply couldn't be helped.

He stood there, for a few minutes more, letting himself hope against reason.

Just as he was about to head inside and retire from his pointless vigil, a familiar barking reached his ears. He had barely turned around when Rex leapt on him, pawing at his trousers and proceeding to smother the King with sloppy, wet kisses. It was the last thing in the world that he'd expected, and the very thing he'd needed most.

"Why, Rexie, you look all better, boy! Good as new!" he exclaimed, kneeling down to scratch behind the dog's ears. "Did my Rexie get a new brain?"

Rex darted around, as if to show off his health and newfound vigor. His longtime companion was a blur of accelerated movement, unable to keep still for more than a few seconds. He danced around the King's feet, vibrating with enough energy to power HELIOS One. Life had been returned to the old canine, whose loyal service to mankind it seemed was not yet complete.

In all the excitement, it would have been easy to forget the instrument of his recovery, but the King did not. He knew exactly where credit was due, to _whom_ it was owed.

Marie was keeping back, out of the way of the reunion that she had every right to take part in. She wore a reserved smile, not to mention some new cuts and bruises. Her cheek looked a little swollen, possibly from a Cazador sting. Despite her oath of silence on the matter, this mission to save Rex couldn't have been easy for her. The Mojave didn't cater to convenience; and that was an understatement.

Standing back up, he approached her with the gratitude she deserved.

"You're a woman of your word, truly," he said, turning the spotlight on her. "I can't begin to tell you how happy I am just to see my pup back on his feet and happy."

"Well, we were in the neighborhood," she said, hiding nonchalance in a smirk.

Grinning, he asked her, "Alright if I thank you now?"

She nodded, stifling a laugh at their private joke. "I think that's generally how it's done, so yes." But in her typically awkward fashion, she extended a hand toward him. It made him smile even more, such an innocent gesture. Apparently, in Marie's mind, a handshake was the ideal system through which _thank you's_ were conveyed.

Accordingly, he took her small hand in his. Then, on impulse, he gathered her other one, drawing their tangled hands near to his chest. She looked up at him with wide, wondering eyes. "Thank you, Marie," he whispered, as their close proximity required no more than that.

"You're welcome," she responded, although her eyes remained fixed on a spot just below his nose.

Interpreting her shy behavior as discomfort with such confidential intimacy, he stepped back. Instead of relief, he was met with disappointment. Her dark eyes darted away from him, leading him to believe that maybe he had been mistaken. Perhaps that had been some sort of cue, missed. He just didn't know, one way or the other, and that surprised him a little. The King was no novice when it came to dealing with women, fancying himself a conservative Casanova, and a gentleman above that, but he suspected he might be a tad out of his depths with Marie.

All the more reason, he believed, to try and get to know her better.

"Should we go inside?" she asked, reading his mind.

He nodded. "Of course, of course. You must be tired and hungry from your trip. Rude of me not to think of it before. Come on, Rexie." With an ear for his former master's voice, the dog heeled. "Let's see if we can't whip somethin' up for our friend here."

- . - . -

Something that didn't occur to the King until too late was the day of the week. He was soon reminded by the festive atmosphere within his _School_, which was inordinately packed with black jackets and greased hair. Most of the gang had gathered inside of the theatre, filling every seat and occupying all four corners of the small room. Those down in front pressed in around the stage where two beautiful women held them in thrall. Between the playful catcalls and the compliments, he could just make out the song they were singing –_ Leader of the Pack_ by the Shangri-Las, the girls' favorite.

Joanie, the blonde one, was an angel beneath the spotlight, playing the part of innocence (minus the modest attire) as she skipped across the stage. Cathy was her counterpart, a foil in dark, brown hair and teasing eyes. The latter was Pacer's main squeeze now, though she insisted on sharing the room connected to the King's with Joanie – for reasons he didn't have to guess at, since she had made her intentions clear to him on several different occasions. Each time, he had politely turned her down, much to her chagrin. Friendship, such as the kind between himself and her present beau, was something she didn't understand, or care to it seemed.

Both women operated under the title of groupie, though it was a bit of an ambiguous term, living under the protection of the Kings. And Tuesday evening was their time; this little song and dance being their contribution. It was fine by the King, encouraged even, since the girls enjoyed themselves and the boys got to let off a little steam without having to arm wrestle any one-armed bandits.

At first, he thought Marie to be entirely disinterested in the scene; then he caught the scrutinizing gleam in her gaze. If he was a gambling man – and he was, from time to time – he would have wagered that the courier was a lot more observant than anyone gave her credit for.

"Why don't we go see about that dinner now?" he suggested, ushering her away from the theatre.

She raised a brow. "And miss the show?"

With a loaded question like that, he could feel the crosshairs on him.

"I've done my share of missing lately," he told her with a soft, meaningful smile. "Don't suppose a little more will do me much harm. Besides, I can't have you go starving on me now. That just wouldn't do."

Marie had a lightness in her eyes – a look he hadn't seen before. "It'd certainly be a black mark on your hospitality," she agreed, breaking into a smile.

He was delighted by her good-natured response. "Exactly."

They headed into the kitchen, or what passed for one. It was really little more than a few refrigerators, not all of which were in working order, and cabinets holding the rest of the non-perishables. Music and raucous laughter from the other room followed them inside, going largely unchallenged by the thin walls and open hallway.

"So what're you in the mood for?" he asked.

She leaned against one of the counters, with her hands folded together. "Anything," she said, then gave a nervous little laugh. "Everything."

"You got it, honey," the King said and began to rifle through the available inventory of goods and foods. They had quite a store, courtesy of years of saving. Not to mention the Garret's kept them well-stocked in exchange for a few appearances at the _Atomic Wrangler_ from time to time. Certainly not a bad trade, in his opinion.

As he started pulling things from the fridge, he noticed Marie start at something in particular. It was a white package with red lettering – _Fancy Lad Snack Cakes_, it read. He had to chuckle at her choice.

The King tossed her the box, which she caught. "Sweet tooth, huh?" he said.

"It's a personality flaw." She was already tearing into the box.

In a matter of seconds, Marie had freed the treat from its cardboard prison. Her expression bordered on euphoric as she carefully withdrew the plastic-wrapped morsel. He had to wonder whether she was holding a sweet pastry in her hands, or something far more precious. She wasted no time in unwrapping and consuming it. Biting into the chocolate cupcake, some of its crème-filled center clung to her lips. The expression, 'like a kid in a candy shop' came to the King's mind. Yet again, he was seeing a different, private side to the courier – and, like before, he found himself enjoying being in her confidence.

"You've got a little somethin' there," he said, moving toward her. Without thinking, he used his thumb to wipe the smidgen of white from the corner of her mouth.

"Thank you," she said quietly, with bowed eyes.

"You're welcome," he answered. Then to his surprise, she continued, really opening up for the first time.

"When I was a little girl, Ma Ma would buy these for special occasions." She smiled at the memory, rolling the second snack cake around in her hand. "I never knew where she got them. Most of the time, it was just wheat noodles and rice. Whatever we could scrounge up. You must know. But these . . . These are what I remember."

"Sounds like you've got some good memories there," the King told her.

Marie nodded, but he caught the ghost of regret in her eyes. She was a woman haunted, though he couldn't know by what. "Plenty of bad ones, too," she added.

"One nice thing about living, I'll tell you," he said, imitating Marie's posture as he crossed his arms and leaned against the counter beside her. "Always time to make more memories. Better ones, if you're fixin' to."

"You make it sound easy."

He leaned over, his arm brushing against her shoulder. "Easier than you think."

She looked up at him, her dark eyes full of soul, and he was revisited by feelings he couldn't describe in plain words. The King wondered if there was a song for it, and supposed he already knew a dozen of them by heart. He decided then and there that some day soon, although he did not know when exactly, he would sing one to her. Just for her, this courier that had thoroughly won him over without having to throw down a single chip. It was impressive, especially by New Vegas standards.

Marie was the first to move away, making a beeline for the fridge. "Have you ever tried Nuka-cola with Sugar Bombs?" she asked, beginning to root around for them.

"Can't say that I ever have," he admitted.

She threw him a smile over her shoulder. "Prepare yourself then."

The King matched her smile, and raised her a chuckle. "When you come around," he said. "I always do."


End file.
